The Team Sherpa Blog

I slung my pack over one shoulder, zipped up my jacket, laced up my gaiters and pushed open the door. Up here on the Borken, the weather was… bad. A cold and icy wind howled, and the fog was so thick you couldn’t even make out the ground at your feet. Luckily the cake and coffee I’d eaten in the café helped ward off the worst of the chill. I sort of felt my way blindly through the dense fog, retracing my steps to find a trail head I knew would bring me down the East side of the mountain. I steam whistle pierced the cloud and let me know that I was just to the left of the tiny train station, though I couldn’t see it. As I moved off of the peak, the clouds thinned a bit to reveal an inviting forest track lacing into the dark woods. The snow was hard enough to walk on up here, a nice break from the joint-dragging wet snow further down. As I quickly lost altitude, the weather changed; from winter and ice the scene was quickly beginning to tell a story of spring. Up until now, the Harz had held a quiet and solitary winter mood- on this side of the Broken these mountains had begun to wake, shuffle, and shrug off the dark season. The heavy, snow laden trees turned into vivid green pine that glistened with the fresh melted snow. The hard packed snow at my feet was turning to a slushy mess that began to mix with the mud below it. Green and yellow moss was replacing ice and snow on the boulders strewn about the forest floor. And everywhere was the sound of water. Small rivulets were skipping across the path, feeding even larger brooks that were laughing down the mountain; the brooks tumbled into streams that were singing loud drinking songs as they coursed along the gullys.

I was on my way to Schierke, some 10km away, and I was following a small path that suddenly came to an intersection. “Alte Bobbahn”, read a sign that pointed to a large and clear forest way that headed steeply down into the valley below. Bobbahn? Wasn’t that a bobsled run? I noticed large embankments along the edges of the path, then consulted my map. Yes, this was indeed a bobsled run- first opened some 100 years ago, it was used right into the 1970’s. And it was covered in hard (in some places slushy!) snow, and led directly into Schierke (cutting 3km off my planned route). Hmmmm. I whipped out my pack cover and arranged myself in what I figured would be optimal bobsledding position. Using my feet to get me going, I began sliding down. I quickly imagined myself careening down the slope, coming around corners with ease and grace, a magnificent streak of speeding hiker. 3m from my starting point I ground to a halt. The snow was too wet for easy sliding. I tried again, this time with a running start. The same results. Sadly, I tucked away the pack cover and pretended that I didn’t really like sliding down snow slopes anyways; it would be cheating on a walking journey.

I made my way quickly down into the warm valley below. Near the bottom of the descent I once again crossed the train tracks, and then I entered into Scheirke. It was a marvel- something out of a fairy tale or bakery window display. Little steep roofed housed, with finely tooled wood work around the eaves. Cobble stone streets and a tiny steeple church. Wood smoke tainted the air, and as I walked down the street the last of the sun disappeared. I knocked on the door of the first house that had a “frei zimmer” sign hung outside, and secured a place for the night. It had been a long day, and this would be a pleasant end. It was an evening I won’t soon forget- I ate pork medallions and sauerkraut, and had cheese cake and coffee for desert. The owner of the restauraunt presented me with a schnapps- Scheirke Feurstein, the same that I had encountered since my first day here was made right here in Scheirke.

I awoke to grey skies the next day, and was out of town by 7 am. It was raining by the time I arrived in the tiny hamlet of Elend. There was no more snow down here on the valley floor, and the grey of the German springtime was heavy. Today my way would follow the valley system and dams of the lower Harz. Pines were slowly giving way to birch and other disiduous trees. As I came to the Madelholz resevoire at around 9.30, the sun began peeking through the gloom. I was again in mining country, and everywhere were the marks and scratches of the thousand year old traditions of the peoples in these mountains. It was nearly lunch time when I began descending again towards Rubeland, a small village two houses deep and 2km long in the bottom of the Bode valley. Schiller had visited here often, and wrote about the now famous caves that are still a major tourist attraction. I stopped here for some refreshment and listened to the idle banter of a group of elder gentlemen at the table next to me; from what I could gather, apparently the plague of “youthful laziness” was a world wide epidemic. Heading out of town above the banks of the Bode, I again had that feeling of Wanderlust- I am free to take me where my legs will carry me. The path I was walking was named for Goethe, who had often walked this exact stretch of the river valley.

I headed back up and over the rolling mountains that separated Mandelholz from its larger brother, the famous Rappbode resevoire. Somewhere up top, I lost my way in a complex network of hunters paths, but common sense (and my compass!) eventually led me to a path that contoured the resevoire from high above. This was a famous dam, at one time the pride of East Germany. It had been a major tourist area for many years, but now it was rarely visited. I descended to the dam, and crossed the resevoire. A few risky looking rowboats sat at the other side- evidence of happier times here. There was a small café pumping out folk music just below the dam, so I stopped in to “get my bearings” which usually ends up involving a pint of the local brew. As luck would have it, they had Kostrizer on tap, one of my favorite beers! I quickly unfurled my map and made myself busy with “route finding” so as to stay in the role of the thirsty hiker, just setting down to some victuals before moving on. I basked in the sun and made that pint last for about half an hour, and to tell the truth, it was one of the best beers I’ve ever had.

My final destination for the day was Altenbrak. It was a famous miners town, nestled in against the rock of the Harz in the wild Bode valley. From the dam, it was a wonderful late afternoon’s walk. The path went up, and down. The forest let through the sharp angled sun and diffused it to that perfect light that is always used by Victorian painters trying to capture the contented beuty of a coutry cottage. Skirting the abandoned Neuwerk, I went across the open country above another resevoire until I met up with the Bode at its eastern end. As I followed the fast moving river, I wistled and sang around its many bends and folds, always just above the rising waters. Just before Altenbrak I passed a trout farm, where a man was calmly dipping a line into the water, and pulling it out with a flapping fish attached with every try. I walked right through Altenbrak’s single steet, and crossed back over the Bode. I followed an old road up the mountain towards some houses I spied futher up, hoping to find a bed for the night. The third house in on the street had a “ferinewohnung” sign outside, so I rang the bell. An elderly woman opened the door, and looked at me in bewilderment. “Are you hiking in the Harz in this time of year?”, she asked. “Yes. I thought I would beat the crowds. Beat them by at least 4 months”, I replied. She smiled at my joke, and asked me if I needed a bed for the night. She showed me a small room in the basement, and told it would be 15 euro for the night, an unbelievably small sum. Perhaps she felt sorry for me somehow.

It had been a long, strenuous day. Over 30 km of walking, with a lot of up and down. I had been up since day break, and now my legs were telling me they had had enough. I had a nap for about an hour, then headed up the hill towards the “Jagerhof” or hunters’ court restaurant, where I ate an enormous meal of stewed boar, red cabage, a litre of beer, an extremely generous serving of cheese cake and a coffee. Fully loaded, I rolled back down to my lodgeings and fell asleep again at around 20.30.

I had arranged a breakfast for the next morning at 6.30am. During the night, the clocks went forward an hour so I lost an hour of sleep. There was a gentle knock on my door at 6.00, and the mistress of the house told me that breakfast would be served in half an hour: precisely 6.30, or actually 5.30. Dragging myself out of bed I showered, prepared my bag and joined my host upstairs. The table had been laid out with enough food for a family, and we both sat down and started tucking into what would turn out to be a massive breakfast. My host was well into her late sixties, and over our extended breakfast told me many stories about the surrounding hills. She had moved up here some 20 years before, after her husband had taken ill and was forced to leave his job at a factory in a nearby city. The government at that time had paid for them to move up to “the healthier, cleaner” mountains, and they had remained here ever since. She told me stories about her children finding badgers and catching a baby deer, about her dog that had been in 3 fights with the same lynx over the past winter, about her grandson that would be commissioned as an officer the following week. It is amazing how easily people will talk to a traveler- I am always amazed and humbled when I come into a small town as a stranger and leave feeling like a long lost friend.

After packing me a lunch for the day, my host sent me on my way just as the sun was coming up. She told me that she missed the young people here in the mountains, and that she was pleased to see that there were still some people who came to visit this wonderful place. I thanked her again, and was soon on my way.

This would be my shortest stage of the walk. With the snow and wind behind in, and Spring opening up before me I was looking forward to the fabled walk along the wild Bode valley. As I descended, the valley walls drew in around me until it was dark with shadows. The River below was squeezed into all sorts of contortions, and the trees were soon giving way to rocky outcropping and sheer limestone faces. Soon the birds had even given up their songs, and the walls pressed in even further; I had entered into the witches lair. The Harz have been famous for its witches, and this wild river valley had been a place of special importance. I turned a corner, and suddenly right across the river from me was the impressive Hexen Tanzplatz- the witches dancing altar. It was perched on top of a stunning and sheer cliff, bald and imposing. It was an anomaly here in the Harz- something out of a gothic nightmare rather than a romantic dream. Or perhaps this was the romance of the Harz- the dark, manicured beuty of the mountains giving way to this massive and imposing place. The Bode began to boil beneath me as it careened through a series of bottle necks and water falls at the foot of the cliff. The water thundered, and seemed to be the perfect soundtrack for the spectacle of a cliff top alter where it was rumoured that witches had for centuries danced and performed their outlawed rituals. And just as quickly as I had stumbled on this place, I was spit out. Around the corner the cliffs vanished, and beyond a few rolling hills lay the town of Thale and the terminus of my walk.

The Bode followed me out of the mountains, resembling nothing of the twisted waters I had just witnessed a few moments ago. I entered Thale at close to 13.00, and was on a train headed back to Essen at 14.30; my journey had ended. As the Harz faded into the clouds behind me, I couldn’t help but wonder at the mystery of the place. Mountains, poets and witches. This had been a simple walking journey, but I was leaving the place with a complex respect for the dark woods and icy peaks of the Harz.